Hedberg-esque Photo Caption

So where do the unimportant birds hang out?

On Writing: Ur Doin it Wrong

Lately I've been using the hash tag #lifelessons on twitter*, which is a term that I use to highlight things I learn after doing something dumb.  Like, how to use the soap sprayer at the do-it-yourself car wash without getting hit in the face; or, if you take apart the vacuum cleaner to clean the filters, you should remember how it all fits together.  I've been doing a lot of these "dumb" or mundane things recently because I am currently without a job.  School's out for the summer--cue song--and I chose to come to Austin with the fiance and work on my novel while he goes to his real job and gets paid real money.  It sometimes gets a little awkward when people ask what I'm doing here (not to mention where I'm from--see earlier post), and I've even had one person refer to my role as the "trophy fiancee."  Har har.  I decided to take that one as a misguided compliment.

Of course I do tell people that I'm here working on my book (or "my novel," or "my writing," depending on my mood) which inevitably makes me feel like a fraud.  I'm not lying; I am working on something that I hope will become a novel...someday.  But the state of "being a writer" seems like such a lofty concept that I'm never sure if I'm embodying it now, or if I ever will.

It's a topic that often comes up among my peers and in my writing workshops.  One of my professors (a "real" writer, she has two books that one can actually purchase from booksellers) is fond of saying that the writing process is like masturbation--everyone does it, but no one wants to talk about it.  In other words, it's highly personal.  You'll sometimes see depictions of writers in movies or on television: set to a manic score, a solitary person (usually male), pounds out words on a typewriter (more dramatic, more tactile than a computer), balls up papers and throws them into the trash, and then....montage over, writer magically delivers bound manuscript to agent/publisher.

The problem with these romanticized visions, and the highly personal and individualized nature of the writing process, is that when I'm working toward that finished product, I'm constantly thinking: am I doing it wrong?

Hence the reason for feeling fraudulent, and for being annoyed, and then evasive, when people ask, "How's it going?"  "What's your book about?"  "How much is written?"

Book Review: Gryphon

I'm not sure why books of short stories aren't more popular, considering that today's collective attention span is so limited.

I recently reviewed Charles Baxter's story collection Gryphon for Hot Metal Bridge and I highly recommend it.  Check out the review here.

Who are You, and Where are You From?

Where are you from?

It’s an innocent question, an easy one. People ask it expecting a few words in reply, a simple answer: I’m from Chicago. I’m from Branson, Missouri. To which they can respond: Oh yeah, I’ve been there. Or, Oh, what’s that like?

But when someone asks me this question lately, I freeze.  What do I say? And how much do I share?

To get you up to speed, I’m currently (living in? residing in? visiting?) Austin, Texas. The Fiancé accepted a summer internship here, and I tagged along, because: a) it was a chance to spend time together after eight months of long distance, b) I had nothing going on employment-wise, which meant I sure as hell wasn’t staying in Pittsburgh, and c) I’ve never been here, and I was curious.  I love going new places; it’s like an adventure.  (Though living in a characterless condo and going swimming every day isn’t exactly backpacking in Patagonia, but you take what you can get.)

But back to the question at hand. The obvious answer is that I’m from Michigan. I was born and raised there; I went to school there. Yet “Michigan” isn’t really significant to my adult life, other than being the place where my family lives. I never worked there (my adolescent stints at Meijer and The Pita Peddler don’t count), I’ve never paid my own rent or mortgage there, I haven’t directly been affected by its economy, its recent pains.

Actually, I'm from farther east, closer to the thumb.  But you get the idea.

Now, I suppose, I’m “from” Pittsburgh, though that doesn’t feel right either.  Three-quarters of the year I go to school there and am employed there, and I rent my own apartment—just me!—for the first time ever.  I have friends, a place where I volunteer, “my” gym, “my” stores, “my” places I go to write. But it feels temporary, secondary.  Temporary because once I graduate, I’ll move on to—I don’t know where. Secondary because it’s not really where I want to be (no offense to the University, and my incredibly intelligent and awesome friends). But, if this were Pretty in Pink, Pittsburgh would be Duckie (Jon Cryer, forever the second banana): he’s cool and nice and all, but you don’t want to date him, or take him to prom.

So who’s Blane (as played by Andrew McCarthy)? New York, of course, and Brooklyn specifically. I’m well aware I can’t technically say I’m “from” New York, or, God forbid, that I’m a “New Yorker.”  There are rules about making such claims, and being that I only lived there for four (I’m ashamed just by typing that paltry number) years, I can’t take ownership other than to say I lived there.

But when I’m standing in front of someone new, and they are politely waiting for an answer—so they can start to form a connection, and begin to piece together who I am—to say “Brooklyn” seems more telling than any other option. It’s where I ended one career and began another (and another), where I made my first real adult friends, where I grew my first (and only) real adult relationship—essentially, it’s where I became an adult.  And Brooklyn remains, in relationship terms, the One Who Got Away—the one who is the measuring stick for other relationships, other cities.  Which is why poor Pittsburgh, with its bad food and Midwest sensibility, never stood a chance. And why I keep fantasizing Austin to be Brooklyn—it’s just that someone shrunk it down and turned up the heat.

So what do I really say when people ask that deceptively simple question, Where are you from?  Inevitably, too much. That I’m from Michigan, but worked in New York, and now I’m a grad student at Pitt… And then their eyes glaze over, or they look at their watches, or gaze longingly at their cars, their escape.  And I realize I really need to keep it simple or I’ll never make new friends.

But I guess that’s the problem with clinging to a past relationship—it makes it that much harder to form a new one.

Caption This Photo

"Oh no, Grace, don't look now!  That heroin addict from across the street is wearing your wedding gown; I think she's trying to steal it!"

I've started buying (and receiving) wedding magazines.  So far I haven't found them exactly...useful.  All the stuff about choosing themes and bridesmaid dresses--it's just not my thing.  But they can be (unintentionally) hilarious at times.  Who wants to look like this chick on their wedding day, really?

Words Matter

I am agitated.

I'm trying my hardest not to be--it's unhealthy.  I can feel the stress taking over my body, causing me to shake.  But some issues are worth agitation.  Or downright anger.

Yesterday, there was a flurry among many of my friends on facebook about a bill put forth in the House by Republican Chris Smith, called the "No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act."  Whether you are on the side of pro-life or pro-choice, the issue with this bill--the issue that agitates me--is how it is attempting to redefine rape.  The bill says: "cases of 'forcible' rape but not statutory or coerced rape," are the only cases in which federal funding for abortions will be allowable.

Wow.

As a writer, I am obsessed with words.  Words matter.  And in this case, the word "forcible" is being used by politicians in a manner that is so demeaning, so backwards, and so hurtful...I'm speechless.

Essentially what this stipulation is saying is that unless a woman is forced into the act of sex in some physically violent manner, federal funding for an abortion will not be available to her.  One has to wonder--will she have to show proof of her physical injury?  Will there need to be bruising of some kind?  The message that's being sent is that even if you didn't give consent, unless your rapist slapped you around, you're not deserving of public support.  Your rape, what you endured, doesn't count in the eyes of the law.  Those psychological scars?  The mental anguish that will last years after any physical bruises have disappeared?  That is not proof enough.  Perhaps you didn't fight hard enough.  Perhaps you weren't even raped at all.

I try not to be too reactionary, especially when it comes to politics.  Perhaps this bill is not something to get too bent-out-of-shape about.  In fact, Democrat Daniel Lipinski, a co-sponsor of the bill, said: "The language of [the bill] was not intended to change existing law regarding taxpayer funding for abortion in cases of rape."  Okay then.  But then why, Mr. Lipinski, include that word "forcible" at all?

At some point, I feel one has to say something.  Because what's next?  Perhaps legislators will decide to place the word "unprovoked" in front of the word "rape."  Were you wearing a short skirt at the time of the assault?  Yes?  Well then, you were asking for it.  No funding for you.

Here's a link to a petition against the bill:

http://pol.moveon.org/redefining/?rc=fb.share.redefining.button.v1

I object to their phrasing it as "dangerous GOP legislation" since some Democrats support the bill as well.  I understand where they're coming from, since a majority of the backers are Republican, but I hope an issue such as this would transcend any political affiliation.  If you are a woman, or if you love and respect women, I hope you'd consider signing.

Nothing Has Changed, Everything Has Changed

I got engaged two weeks ago.

The proposal was expected (after six years of dating) but also caught me off guard (so much so that I pretty much collapsed in the snow when it happened). Since then, nothing has changed, and everything has changed.

I say nothing has changed, because it really hasn't. At some point I realized I loved him and always would, that I wanted to be with him to the exclusion of anyone else. Though I should say "points," because if love is anything, it is cyclical.

Not-So-Breaking News

Why "symbolically" attempt to repeal health care reform?  It's just that the Republicans are so darn sentimental...

The Season of Self-Loathing

So, January.  It’s cliché, I know, to talk about New Year’s resolutions.  But I don’t have much else to discuss (and I must discuss something, as “posting on the blog once a week” is one of my NYRs), and it beats all the other topics my friends are discussing these days: the doomsday scenario of the Republicans taking over the House, the doomsday scenario of the Michigan coaching situation, etc.

My problem with NYRs is that I already feel the pressure, almost every day, to be perfect in all aspects of life.  I touched on this idea in my last post—the struggle of trying to be a successful student while maintaining a rigorous workout schedule.  Do I really need another push, telling me I have to better myself in some way?  A nagging voice telling me I must make up for my positively slovenly behavior of the past few months?  (I made Christmas cookies, yes.  And I ate quite a few…GUILTY!)

The other problem with NYRs is that they’re often contradictory.  Last year at this time, I embarked on a Paleo Challenge, where I ate nothing but whole, real foods for six weeks.  No sugar, wheat, dairy, beans, legumes, or processed anything.  I felt great, I looked pretty good (if I do say so myself), and I felt pretty darn virtuous.  The problem was, it was really difficult to maintain, not least of all because it was expensive.  And that’s where the contradiction comes in: I want to eat well, but I also want to spend less money.  I need to spend less money.  I currently make negative money.

Life of the Body, Life of the Mind

This move to Pittsburgh has been a momentous one.  I changed cities, career paths, the direction of my life.  While this is certainly a movement forward for me, I sometimes feel like I’m making a trade.  No offense to Pittsburgh, but when it comes to swapping it for Brooklyn, I feel like I’m getting a bit of a raw deal.  (Though I do appreciate the 30%+ discount on rent.)  But I also feel like I’ve traded a life of the body for a life of the mind.

When the Going Gets Tough, Hug a Kitty

So.  It's been a while.  It's not that I've had nothing to write about; in fact, the problem is just the opposite: I've had so much to write about that every time I sit down to write a new post, an, "I'm back!" post, I become paralyzed as my fingers hover over the keys.  I've had a few false starts: I began a post about my vacation, started one about marriage and babies...then never finished either.

Then, today, as I was suffering through a tortuous run, it hit me: fuck it, I'll write about this.

But first, a summary.  In mid-July I quite my job in New York.  I spent one-and-a-half blissful weeks doing all the things I've ever wanted to do in NYC: visiting the Whitney, going surfing in the Rockaways, touring the Cloisters, etc.  Then there was half a week of harried, stressful packing.  I decided to leave NYC--and my job, and my lovely friends--to go to Pittsburgh, pursue a graduate degree, and write (and teach) full time.  However, I still had some time before school started.  So the BF and I began a wonderful, perhaps overly ambitious, summer vacation.  In the span of about three weeks, we visited Cincinnati, Nashville, Chicago, Ann Arbor, Detroit, and a very northwestern tip of Michigan.

Eventually, we had to get back to reality.  I've been in Pittsburgh now for two weeks.  Classes have started, I like them, and I am mostly very happy to be here.  It's lonely though; I don't know anyone in Pittsburgh, and I'm a minimum four-and-a-half hour drive from anyone who loves me.  But, I try not to dwell on that fact.

So, back to that run.  For some reason, even though I have been running off and on for about 12 years of my life, running here has felt unnatural.  Today, for example, the very first steps I took, all I could think was: I'm uncomfortable.  Half a mile in, I had to stop and take off my top layer of clothing.  What on earth had possessed me to wear long sleeves?  Then my headphones kept flapping, and hitting me in a way that irked me like crazy.  I thought: how had I ever done this before?

The fact is, in running, as in life, it doesn't get easier.  It's just when you start to get comfortable that things tend to get tough all over again.

With the running, I know I am pushing it a little too hard.  I've been on the road, I'm going through huge changes--my body and mind are a mess.  But I signed up for the Chicago Marathon (10/10/10) ages ago, before I even knew I was coming to Pittsburgh, and committed to running with a group of serious runner friends.  So every day I keep thinking about where I should be physically, and getting frustrated by where I actually am.  In addition to my mental roadblocks, it's been difficult to adjust to the topography here.  Michigan and New York--both places I lived and ran before--were very similar in their low, flat terrain.  And though Pitt isn't Denver, the elevation is higher than what I'm used to, and it's hilly.  The other day I was convinced I had run uphill both ways to and from my house.

Just as my lack of preparedness has hurt my running, it's the things I didn't prepare for that have made this transition so difficult.  First, there was the flood that occurred in my new apartment while the BF and I were on vacation.  While I was anxious about starting school again, I hadn't anticipated spending hours a week on the phone with my new landlord, trying to get things fixed.  My first day of orientation, I found myself in a school bathroom in tears.  It was a lot to take on my first day in an unfamiliar place.

I also didn't fully foresee how hard it would be to live apart from the BF again.  We did the distance things once before, and remarkably well too.  I knew I was going to miss him, and I knew we were going to get through this like we had before.  I just didn't know how hard it would be to watch him pull away in his car, leaving me alone here, in the fullest sense of the word.  I didn't just cry; I sobbed.  For days, it felt like I'd lost an appendage, a piece of myself.

But for now, I think, the hardest part is over.  My apartment is fixed, I've started to meet people, and the BF and I have settled into a comfortable and frequent phone routine.  I can only hope the running will also fall into place in time, that I'll relearn my stride, and be able to take on the hills with confidence, perhaps even enthusiasm. All I can do is lace up my shoes again tomorrow, and try again.  At the very least, I can still go to Chicago to cheer on my friends.

Yes, the worst seems to be behind me--at least, until it gets tougher all over again.

On the Road

Snippets has been on the road the past two weeks, but more posts are coming soon! Am currently at Hamburger University* in Elmhurst, IL. I've chosen to minor in ketchup.


*Hamburger University is real. We happen to be staying at the Hyatt on the campus of McDonald's headquarters.

Mow, Dog, Mow!

The best is when he looks at the camera like, "Whaddup."

Thanks to my friend Matt at Warming Glow for this one.

Rush Hour Reject

Things I'm not going to miss about New York City: this guy

CrossFit: A Field Guide (Part Deux)

So here it is!  The long-awaited (by about three of you) Part II of the CrossFit Field Guide.  Part I covered the workouts, jargon, and people.  Part II covers the all-important topics of wardrobe, diet, and controversy. 

(But really, it’s just a thinly veiled mash note to my companions and coaches at my box, CrossFit South Brooklyn.  I’ll be moving at the end of the month and will miss them dearly, but in the words of the Governator, I’LL BE BACK!  That’s a promise.)  

The Wardrobe

The CrossFit aesthetic is unusual, to say the least. As in other realms of fashion, the men are more uniform and less loud in their dress. The typical CrossFit Male is often undistinguishable from the rest of the gym-going population of men: t-shirt, shorts, and gym shoes. There are, however, subtle differences. Whereas your average gym-goer wears Nike or adidas trainers, the CrossFit male is more likely to be wearing weightlifting shoes or Converse. He is also more apt to take his shirt off mid-workout; a practice often frowned upon at most corporate gyms.

In warmer months, the CrossFit Male may often been seen barefoot. Contrary to popular belief, weightlifting and running are often better executed this way, as one can better get a "feel" for the floor. I can just imagine countless non-Paleolithic members of society cringing at the potential dangers: you could drop a weight on your foot! You could step on glass! (Not to mention the socio-economic implications; one CF friend of mine, while walking home barefoot from the box, was offered money by a stranger to "buy some shoes"; the bystander likely thought he was another recession victim). In my experience, people tend to get over their aversion to shoelessness sooner or later. I began lifting in stocking feet after a few months--though I still wear shoes while walking and running the streets of Brooklyn. Apologies to my fellow CF-ers, but I'm not crazy. I don't wish to test whether or not my tetanus shots are up-to-date.  Perhaps the impracticalities of going barefoot are what make Vibrams, those weird reptilian-looking shoes with toes, more popular among the CrossFit demographic (both male and female) than the general population.

While popular with yogis, the lululemon-brand clothing is also popular among CF-ers, both male and female. I quickly discovered why. Though it still makes me cringe to spend nearly $100 on stretchy pants, the quality is unmistakable, and necessary. While doing common CF exercises like deadlifts and squats, which require an extreme ass-out position, inferior-quality pants and shorts are stretched to their limits, often exposing the wearer to the extreme. I'll expand no further on the subject.

The CrossFit Female is often colorful and expressive in her attire.  Clothes are often short or tight, or some combination of the two.  This is less for show [though if you looked like this (fast forward to 1 minute), who wouldn’t want to show off a little?] and more for practicality’s sake.  You don’t want to be mid-workout worrying about a baggy shirt or pair of shorts riding up, or getting tangled in a jump rope.

In this way, the CF Female may seem to resemble any other woman bound for Pilates class—until you get to the all-important part of the wardrobe known as accessories.  The most distinguishing accessories of the CF Female are the tall socks.  Calf-length, knee-high, or over-the-knee, these socks also serve a purpose in CrossFitting.  They protect your shins from bar scrapes and scars while doing deadlifts, cleans, and snatches.  They protect your calves from rope burn while climbing.  And as a bonus, when paired with short shorts, they show off toned quads and hammies.

Other accessories worn by both male and female CFers include sweatbands, bandanas, and things called skins, which I believe are supposed to improve your circulation and/or make you look like a serious athlete.  There are also the all-important affiliate* t-shirts, which sport sayings ranging from the serious (“Fitness is Earned”) to the silly (“I eat burpees** for breakfast”).  CFers also love things adorned with skulls.  It’s all about looking tough.

21st Century Loneliness

Apartment hunting is a stressful business. And aprtment hunting in a time crunch (say, within 24 hours), in an unfamiliar city? Even worse.

And so my parents, boyfriend, and I approached last weekend's apartment search in Pittsburgh with anti-anxiety meds, inhalers, and Kevlar in tow. And so it was our first appointment was at The Most Depressing Apartment Building of All Time.

Judging from the pictures and the price, I thought the M-- building housed luxury units for graduate students and young professionals. But when we got inside the shabby lobby and took the elevator to the 7th floor, which smelled like an old folks' home, I knew my assumption had been dead wrong.

As building manager R-- led us to the first apartment, I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the smell and the 70s-era red patterned carpet. We entered the first studio, which still looked to be inhabited. Pictures lined the walls, and several surfaces held doilies, plants, and more photographs. A single bed, shoved against the wall, was covered by an afghan. A cupboard door had been clearly labeled with a sticker that said "PILLS." It was clear we were in an old person's apartment. And it became even clearer, viewing the three 40-something people packing up boxes, that we were in an old, dead person's apartment.

Upon piecing these facts together, I was horrified. I nodded mutely as R-- pointed out the features of the space. I wanted out of there--fast.

Before entering the second apartment, R-- expressed resentment over how dirty the current tenant was. She assured me the studio would be thoroughly cleaned before move-in. She knocked on the door and received no response. Before entering, R-- covered her nose with her hand.

The place reeked of cat piss and general griminess. The sound of water could be heard from somewhere off to the right. "She's in the shower," R-- explained, and once again I felt horribly intrusive; combined with the smell, I was ready to leave as soon as we had arrived. We quickly toured the place under the glare of an angry-looking black cat and, mercifully, left before the tenant exited the shower.

The third and final apartment was a 1-bedroom, pricier than the rest. While it housed a living tenant, and did not have any malicious odor, it could still have been considered the most depressing.

"This tenant," R-- explained, "sleeps in the living room."

Upon entering, the only sign of life within view was a pile of shoes next to the door. In the living room, there was indeed a bed, or rather, a boxspring and mattress, messily made up. A computer sat in front of it, humming away atop some packing crates. Cords were strewn everywhere, and there was no other decoration in sight. I wanted to suggest to R-- that instead of renting the apartment, she should preserve it as a contemporary art piece and charge admission. Perhaps call it "21st Century Loneliness."

I said goodbye to R--, lease application in hand, knowing I would throw it away as soon as she was out of sight. Even if she had been giving the apartments away, I could never bring myself to move into that domicile of depression.

Observation

What's the worst part about telling your friend that his/her boyfriend/girlfriend/fiancée sucks? You CAN'T. Sigh.

One is the Loneliest Number

Being on vacation alone is no fun. Actually, I am on "fakecation," which in my case means a work trip at a swanky hotel in Puerto Rico. But still. Even though i have to work a majority of the time, it's a great place. The kind of place you wish you could share with someone else; preferably with one you love.

The one I love is in NYC, which means I am left to marvel at everything alone: the palm trees, the ocean, the way the maid arranged my shoes and cosmetics in an aesthetically pleasing manner. It's just not as much fun when you can't share the "ooh"s and "ahh"s with someone else.

So what to do? Drown my loneliness in alcohol? Flirt with a stranger? No and no. (Though I did have a few glasses of wine. Open bar!!) Instead, I bought tuna at the gift shop and fed some stray cats. And dangled a jump rope from my balcony, to annoy my co-worker with the room directly below mine. I don't think he noticed. His significant other is in there with him.

Highway to Hell

This is the second time I have been on a torturously long bus ride and thought: maybe I have died and am in some sort of awful purgatory, where I am forced to ride a bus for all eternity, forever deprived of decent food, sleep and an empty bladder.

We have probably been clocking an average speed of 45 mph this whole trip. It is insanity. I am losing my mind. I wish 1990s Sandra Bullock would bust in and press this guy's foot down on the pedal. To be fair, there is a lot of construction going on. But still, we're in a freaking megabus! Take out some orange cones, dude. Ain't no thing.

But back to that first bus trip, it was Barcelona to Granada. The one memorable thing about the ride was my friend M. relieving himself in his Nalgene bottle about an hour into the trip. His brilliant plan to get tanked before the 14-hour drive had one flaw: no bathrooms on the bus.

Since I'm Trapped...

...I might as well post a link to The Folded Word! My 3-poem series has been nominated for an award, and you can vote here:

http://folded.wordpress.com/2010/06/16/vote-for-3cheers-spring-2010/

Cheers!